Like Poetry
by wahoo
Summary: Howard discovers an unnverving poem, Howard/Vince, and my first inexpert venture into the land of Boosh.


_Disclaimer: I have no rights to the material of the Mighty Boosh, and am not publishing this with the permission of the copyright owners nor to seek out any personal profit. If they chose to assert their copyright or ask for the removal of this story, I will be more than happy to oblige._

The first one caught Howard's eye as he slumped over his oatmeal, exhausted after being woken up by Vince's platform boots clattering upstairs at 2am.

It was an innocuous scrap of paper, lying on the coffee table. The back of the menu from a nearby curry place, with a dark blue scrawl across it. The shapes of the letters were oddly familiar, and as Howard's bleary-eyed stare slowly deciphered them through his sleep-addled brain, a slow realisation began dawning.

_You're eyes,_ it read, _are like tiny, twinkling beads pushed deeply into your soft beige face-skin._

Howard felt a little ill, and he stopped eating.

_And yer hair, _it continued, _is a soft sea of dark-beige sat on your head._

Howard gritted his teeth, and did his best to suffer another line before either screaming out in fury at Vince's mockery of his deep and heartfelt cream poems or resorting to self-harm.

_The hair that dances across my vision in chaos like improvised jazz_

_bringing a near allergic fever to my chest._

He couldn't, oh couldn't read anymore. Howard buried it in his inedible breakfast and spooned the whole sodden lot into the bin.

He wouldn't scream, he decided. Or even complain. It was, after all, his own fault. As he trudged downstairs to begin opening the shop, Howard remembered again the awful realisation he'd had, when he'd returned from his stint as a paid actor to find that he had been replaced by a complete knob.

Vince was a monster. A vain, selfish, sociopathic monster. And Howard had made him that way. Imprinted upon him with his selfish cowardice, his self-serving vanity and quests for riches and glory. Howard's weaknesses had pushed the once innocent and loving jungle-child into a petty, thoughtless, self-protecting dickhead.

Which was why Howard had decided to stay, to suffer the demeaning jokes and careless neglect of friendship, and the obvious exclusion, because someone had to be there for Vince. To see all the awful things, accept them, and forgive him. He could, at the very least, offer that much to someone who had once been the sweetest and dearest friend in the world to Howard.

Although, at times like this, when Vince tore the most intimate of Howard's insides into tiny little creamy-beige pieces, things did become difficult. Howard finished counting the till in, recorded things in the book, and rolled up his sleeves to his shoulders, to add another bruise to his quickly growing collection.

Then, as always, he rolled up the shutters, unlocked the door, and settled down with the radio to sink into the jazz-trance that would wash away for a small amount of time the anguish and darkness that was the life of Howard Moon.

Except that day, for some unfathomable reason, Vince was awake. He entered the shop and clapped Howard on the shoulder, clipping painfully against his self-inflicted wounds. Howard twitched away in pain, and swore under his breath.

"Didn't I say? Don't. Touch. Me."

Vince rolled his eyes, and backed off, arms raised in surrender.

"What are you doing up so early, anyway?" Howard demanded. Vince just shrugged, and wandered over to a collection of bric-a-brac, fiddling with everything.

"Dunno, really, just the sun was all bright, and it seemed a shame to stay in bed," He answered.

Howard eyed Vince skeptically.

"Well, that," Vince admitted, "and I dunno, I had a sudden craving for cereal that woke me right up."

He winked at Howard, who felt his heart sink. Drugs, probably. Or something sinister like that. He'd probably made a royal mess of the kitchen, if not the whole flat. Howard sighed and headed upstairs, telling Vince to watch things for a while.

As he'd expected, there were small drops of milk and scrappity bits of cereal all over the place. He began to tidy things up, but noticed something strange about the sugary-death-stick cereal box. Had it always been decorated with red graffiti?

_Your lips,_ he read, _are pink-beige,_

_shiny like a gummy sweet_

_I wonder, iff I lick them_

_will they feel_

_like a beige paradise?_

Howard felt that same old bitter twist of rage, pain, regret and guilt rise in his gut like bile. It threatened to spew out through his mouth. It felt like if it escaped, it would be enough of a tide to drown the entire flat. Or be so potent and violent that the place exploded, raining small bits of rueful Howard's belly over the street.

He swallowed against it, and moved dully to keep cleaning, keeping one fist clenched against it. If he relied on the bruises and the burns too often, it would become obvious. They'd hospitalise him, or, more likely, just throw him out.

Better to learn some self control.

He maintained his composure as he returned to the shop, determined now to confront Vince and put an early end to what might become a regular and intolerably painful torture.

"What is this, Vince?" He demanded, waving the cereal box emphatically.

Vince visibly paled, and he said softly, "Oh, shit."

Which wasn't the reaction that Howard had been expecting. He'd been expecting an excuse, or a loud protestation of Vince's innocence. Not a paler-than-usual face, or a quiet and humble admittance of guilt.

In fact, now that he thought to look, he could almost swear he could see Vince's hand tremble.

"So," He hazarded awkwardly, "you weren't mocking me?"

Vince blinked, and looked confused.

"The cream poems, Vince," Howard reminded him. "I thought you were mimicking the awkward poetry of my youth, with your own spelling quirks, with the sole purpose of upsetting me."

Vince goggled, and Howard scratched his head.

"But, you obviously weren't, so forget it, eh."

Vince's face still looked odd, and Howard was beginning to get very worried. He crossed the room, dropped the cereal box, and laid a wary hand on Vince's shoulder.

"Hey, you alright, little man?"

Vince leant into his touch, and sighed heavily.

"Yeah, just... I mean, look. Let's close for a break and get a cuppa, yeah?"

Howard turned the sign around while Vince put the kettle on upstairs. The whole day was stretching out into an exhausting and sombre series of events.

"So," Vince began awkwardly, "I didn't mean to, y'know, with the poems. I just..."

He sipped his tea, and Howard tactfully sipped his own and avoided eye contact.

"I mean, I've been with a lot of girls, right? But I didn't realise until a few days ago that being _in_ love with someone was entirely different."

Howard felt realisation dawn on him.

"So you thought you'd try what I did with Mrs. Gideon? Vince, we both know that that was a pathetic blight upon poetry and all poets by association. My cream poems were never... what I'd want to give to anyone I cared about."

"Well, no," Vince agreed, leaning with a bit more energy over his mug earnestly, "but they were so full of all those awful, horrible, obsessively scary parts of love that I thought maybe it'd help, just a little."

Vince scratched his neck.

"No, I mean, I guess I just wanted to see if it came out the same. Cos you were really into her, and all. I guess being in love makes everyone sound like a twat."

And that was that. They finished their tea, Howard patted Vince awkwardly on the back in sympathy, and they went about their daily business.

Lovelorn Vince wasn't too different to normal Vince. He kept on staring out the window and daydreaming, or watching Howard and joking around. Now that he knew Vince was helpless and besotted, in fact, Howard felt the tight knots in his chest unravel. Vince was vulnerable, and had looked to him for guidance, if in a convoluted way.

Things felt safe, and warm, and friendly in a way that Howard had forgotten to hope for. It was with a smile and a soft be-bopping hum that he dusted and straightened and made sure that Vince gave the customers correct change.

It was even with a regretful, wistful sigh that he sidestepped Vince's usual clingly familiarity. He'd have almost welcomed it, but Howard knew that if Vince discovered the extent of his bruises, the comfortable air in the shop would be destroyed.

It wasn't until well after closing and a quickly scrambled dinner that he thought to ask the most obvious question of all.

"Vince?"

The glittering, heart-aching pansy looked up from his magazine.

"Mrs. Gideon had very creamy, lovely skin. An off-milk beauty she was. But who on earth do you know who is beige? Is it one of your fashionable pals, with some weird new brand of fake-tan, or something?"

Vince didn't answer, not really. Something evasive and odd, that left Howard confused and concerned. Surely, after everything they'd been through, there was nothing that Vince could feel he needed to hide from Howard.

Unless?

Unless it was Fossil, maybe? No, that was too disgusting for words. Anyway, there wasn't a beige accent to the man at all, with his silly jumpsuit and sandwich-grabbing dance moves.

Was it the bald-headed head of Shamen who had chased them at the birthday party? No, of course not. That first messy attempt of Vince's had mentioned hair. So not the bald, homophobic idiot.

Howard shifted awkwardly in his bed, and hoped that Vince had fallen asleep. Sometimes sharing a room was incredibly un-private, and it just felt obscene to be supposing about Vince's love while the little man lay similarly awake, caressing that person's features in his own thoughts.

Did apes, Howard wondered, have beige skin, beneath their fur?

He shook his head, and tried to clear his thoughts for sleep, but the question of _who_ ran in circles through his mind. Whoever it was, if all the spangled and shiny tartlets hadn't captured Vince's heart, would have to be a pretty special person.

Maybe it was Mrs. Gideon herself, returned, and that was the source of Vince's fear and guilt and sudden pale shock. Maybe that was why he'd been writing beige poems.

Vince sighed heavily across the room, obviously getting as little sleep as Howard was.

"Who is it, Vince, come on! You can tell 'ol Papa Moon."

Vince scoffed in the dark.

"As if. No way!"

"I won't laugh at you, you know."

"It isn't that," Vince conceded, "It's that it's... a little close to home."

Howard gasped.

"It _is_ Bollo, isn't it?"

Vince gasped.

"What?! No, that's disgusting! I only like him as a friend."

Howard let out a small, humble "oh", and rolled onto his back as Vince began to laugh softly.

"You know, Howard, you are more wrong in the head than I knew."

"Oh, shut it!"

Silence fell between them again, and Howard felt more than a little bit derided and put upon.

"I can hear you pouting, you know, jazz man." Vince teased him, "your lips all soft and contorted and gorgeously..."

He trailed off into silence, and Howard felt a very strange tugging and tightening in his gut.

"Vince," He called out, intending it to be strong and re-assuring, but only achieving a constipated whisper of a noise.

"Vince," He tried again, louder, "Do you mean to say... er... that... my jacket has some beige elbow-patches? You know, the ones I put on last week?"

Howard felt a very small amount of nervous fear steal into his chest. If Vince said "no", then he'd just gone and made a tit of himself. But if Vince said "yes", then Howard had no idea how to act or respond. Should he crawl into Vince's larger bed and embrace the skinny man, or peck him on the cheek, or admit that he'd not thought about it once since he'd offered his heart to Vince and seen the aghast grimace on his face in response.

He was so busy worrying about it all that he didn't notice that Vince had crept across the floor until he'd rested his hand suddenly on Howard's shoulder.

Which hurt like all buggery.

"Fuck!"

"What, what?!" Vince backed off quickly, and Howard tried to cover quickly.

"Shit, sorry, no. I mean, I pulled that shoulder a little, last week. Still hurts a bit, I wasn't expecting you there."

He heard Vince come closer again, until they were close enough for Vince to whisper into Howard's ear.

"Please?"

Then Vince's lips were on his, and Howard felt awkward and clumsy and naked. He'd only ever been horribly traumatised by sex, after all. He'd never had a kiss that hadn't resulted in a sudden and bitter twist of fate. But, unlike every other time, his current partner was gasping a little, shivering beside him, and leaning back in for a second taste.

Even though he wasn't all that sure of his heart, Howard couldn't find the power in him to resist the touch of Vince's tongue against his own, or the soft plaintive noises Vince made as he slid his hands up Howard's sides to pull their bodies closer together.

It hurt, a little, but Vince obviously took Howard's sharp intake of breath for a compliment of sorts, as he let out a short and needy moan. The warmth and desire that had been pooling in Howard since his very early adolescence had finally found an out, and he found his world reduced to Vince's mouth, Vince's hands, and to clasping his own on Vince's arse to pull them closer together still.

After a while, Vince took Howard's hand and led him over to the larger bed. Lying down, beneath the duvet, Howard was equal parts excited and terrified that he would finally lose his virginity. But instead a drowsy Vince nuzzled his head into the crook of Howard's neck, wrapped a leg between and around his, and exhaled a long and exhausted sigh against his skin.

It was very hard to sleep after that.


End file.
